Nights at the Circus: Masterlist
Gifted with powers at the age of sixteen, you thought you could avoid being ‘discovered’ by S.H.I.E.L.D by working as an act in a traveling show, but when the jig is finally up, you find yourself having a hard time fitting in at Avenger Tower, where Loki Laufeyson seems to be giving you a particularly hard time. Will you lose your mind navigating this new life, or will someone make everything worthwhile?
PAIRING: Loki x Reader, possibly others
STATUS: Ongoing, soap opera
CONTENT WARNING: Smut, injury, bondage, BDSM, various praise/degradation kinks, Switch! Loki and Switch! Reader (but mainly Dom!Loki, Sub!Reader, sex magic, occasional dub!con, possible threesomes, other kinks, general melodrama
RATING: **18+ MINORS DNI**
PART I PART II PART III PART IV PART V PART VI PART VII
PART VIII PART IX PART X PART XI PART XII PART XII
PART XIV PART XV PART XVI PART XVII PART XVIII PART XIX
PART XX PART XXI PART XXII PART XXIII PART XXIV PART XXV
PART XXVI PART XXVII PART XXVIII PART XXIX PART XXX
PART XXXI PART XXXII PART XXXIII PART XXXIV
PART XXXV Epilogue
MY GENERAL MASTERLIST
Failure? Tony Stark x Son!Reader (Part One)
Prompt: During dinner one day, the topic of Y/N’s grades comes up.
Themes: angst, eventual father/son fluff
Pairings: son!reader x father!tony stark (also pepper is reader's mom!)
A/N: I started writing this back in 2019 and just now finished it but this is still my first piece of writing posted here, so any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Plus, what's a first post without some angst? I hope you enjoy it :)
Warnings: angst, depression, a representation of my shitty ass eating habits + lots of friggin swearing
My body felt slow like quicksand as I moved to the dinner table. I hate this. I know what my Dad is going to say the moment I answer his nightly question of “How were your classes?”, Shit Mr. Stark, absolute Shit, with a capital ‘S’. I despise papers, I hate the classes I write them for and I hate the papers too. Before we know it, maybe my Dad will hate me too?
I sloppily fall into my chair at the dining table, right across from my father, who, at the moment, is staring blankly at a screen. His eyes don’t even gaze my way when my chair makes the most annoying high-pitched sound, he doesn’t even acknowledge me. Well that sounds about right.
Mom yanks the clear, glass, electric screen from Dad’s iron grip, “Come help me bring dinner to the table, will ya?” she chirps and I can almost hear my Father groaning in annoyance.
Once the food has all been brought to the table and put on everyone’s plate, my Dad finally looks at me. It’s a cold look, stern too, but I still want to search for the ounce of love he may have for me in those brown eyes of his. His mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but recoils, and purses his lips.
He begins to speak again, “So, kiddo, how were your classes today? Anything new happen?”
“They were fine. Boring and uneventful, but fine.” I spin my fork around in my pasta, procrastinating the thought of having to bring the fork up to my lips. He pauses and drops his own fork, causing a clink sound to erupt, furrowing his eyebrows as hs eyes stare straight at me.
“What grade did you get on that paper?” He raises an eyebrow at me and then gently pushes his plate aside.
“What does it matter?”
“Well, I would like to know if you worked hard enough on it to get an acceptable grade.” He crosses his arms over his chest and I can almost feel the large amounts of varying emotions boiling up inside me, ready to burst and roll right off my tongue.
“I got a D minus,” I flinch, prepared for the worst possible outcome, but instead of yelling and screaming, I get silence.
“Go to your room, you’re rewriting that essay and turning it in tomorrow at noon.”
“What? That’s not nearly enough time! You-” I’m cut off by the sound of my Dad’s chair scratching against the tile floor as he moves to stand. He gestures towards the hall, and I take that as my que. I retrain from running and semi-calmly walk towards my room. Accidentally slamming the door behind me. My hand grazes against the doorknob before swiftly locking it.
My feet bring me to my unmade bed and I plop myself on the side of it. I feel tears pricking at the corner of my eyes, begging to be let go. I seem to give in because before I know it, wet hot tears are pouring down my cheeks as I let out sobs and pull my legs up to my chest.
It’s just a stupid grade, yet, to my Dad, it’s everything. I get good grades, then I’m good for him, otherwise, I'm just something he can throw away when I’m no longer useful to him or the Stark legacy. Its. Just. One. Stupid. Grade. Yet at the same time, it’s my worth as a person and a member in this family. I hate this.
Y/N's door slams shut and I flinch, beginning to regret sending him to his room. Did I overreact again? Was I too harsh? Should I be easier on the kid?
I'm ripped from my thoughts when Pepper chimes in a moment later:
"You shouldn't be so hard on him. He's trying."
I grimace, Pep's right. But I dont want to admit it. "He needs to work harder. He's slacking."
She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Tony, he's a kid, your kid. No, our kid. And he needs your support, not your constant criticism."
I cross my arms, sliding down my chair, my gaze directed down the hall at Y/N's room. I'm not criticizing him, I'm only helping him. Teaching him self discipline. If I don't, he'll turn out like me and have to do it on his own.
"I'm not criticizing him, Pepper. I'm being a father."
"Not the greatest." She mumbles under her breath, I pretend to not have heard her and continue our meal. In silence. Agonizing silence..
As I finish my plate, Pepper gets up, heading to the kitchen to begin the nightly chores. I get up behind her, meeting her at the sink, "I've got it, Pep."
"Thanks." She smiles, a small but genuine smile and heads back to the dining room, retrieving the rest of the dishes. I begin to separate them into dishwash and handwash, starting to load up the dishwasher. My mind running a thousand miles per hour.
Am I becoming my father? Am I hurting my son? Am I doing something wrong? Am I the bad guy?
"He didn't touch his plate, again." Pepper cuts my thoughts short, yet again. I cringe as she scrapes the plate clean, following by her handing me the plate. I smile to myself as I take it from her hand. Y/N's used the same plate since he was 5, the same one he and I made together. He decided he wanted to have his hand print and mine together, his is in blue and mine in red. I remember it like yesterday, his little giggles as I painted his hand a bright blue. I'm sure to gently wash it, to not accidentally wash off the 10 year old hand prints placed on it. I rinse it and put it aside, continuing with the rest of them. Letting my mind run free yet again.
I'm not a bad father. I'm doing what I have to. I'm protecting him and nurturing his potential. My criticism is constructive, not harmful. Did I hurt him?
I couldn't have hurt him. Did I?